


Goodbye, Yesterday

by folkloric



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:07:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folkloric/pseuds/folkloric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The death of Clint brings the avengers closer as they mourn him for a day and celebrate him for the rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye, Yesterday

            There is no rain, there is no one crying and there is nothing to denote anything strange in this circumstance. They all stand together in a semi circle, somber, quiet, as they listen to the preacher speak. There are no flowers, no emblazoned picture that proudly proclaims that this smiling person is here. There is only the drone of a plane flying over head, the sound of children playing on the playground across the street and the fading music of a car who’s bass is scratchy from overuse, busted and in need of replacement. There is heat on their backs from the sun as it bears down on them as they all stand around this strange hole in the ground. She adjusts the sunglasses on the bridge of her nose with a light, manicured touch and the cage veil shifts the hat on her head. Her red lips purse, once, twice as the man’s words join into the background and she contemplates the terms _What do I do now?_ and _How fucking dare you._

A hand places itself on her shoulder as a warm arm presses against her back as her shoulder greets the other’s chest. The stray hand moves up and down her chilled arm, and with a deep breath she can smell the cologne that’s worth more than her outfit probably but not the heels. No, definitely not these ones. The preacher drones on and her eyes drift from him to the others in her field of vision. Pepper stands in the corner of her eye, an image of a mourning friend. Puffy eyes that refuse to clear even though she dots the tears away. To her right stands Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes, to her left is Anthony Stark. Rhodes is in his best dress uniform, Stark in a sharp suit. The arm that has draped itself upon her belongs to Rogers than, ever the Boy Scout there for her to lean on in this one moment of weakness. The preacher continues to speak and the words still make no sense as the faint buzzing that has gathered like a storm of gnats moves from the back of her head, to cloud the rest of it. She blinks once, twice, her eyes suddenly feeling tight and tired.

She closes them, giving her eyes the needed rest as the smell and heat of Steve keeps her grounded in the present and the drone of the preacher keeps her upright. Incrementally she begins to lean more and more on Rogers and he accommodates, never changing his posture, hiding the weakness that is slowly beginning to seep from her brain to neck, to shoulders and to her chest. She takes a deep breath and smells more of Rogers- shaving cream, cologne, musk. She can smell her own perfume there as well, dark, heady and she bows her head slightly against the body that holds her as she thinks of the person who had bought it for her.

Fury is there, out of the leather coat and in his own version of a S.H.I.E.L.D uniform, Banner by his side. The former looks strained, uncomfortable at the proceedings while the later looks tired, so tired of these type of gatherings. The preacher finishes the rites and she rises from her position on Steve’s chest and fixes her glasses with a manicured nail. She places nothing on the casket but her hand, the sun warmed wood making her skin crawl with sudden want. The chill leaves her briefly as she spreads her fingers on the wood, the ring on her thumb gleaming in the light. They all join her there, all hands on the wood and she doesn’t need to speak the final words, Tony does it for them all.

His voice is strained, with a peculiar whine that rides the edge of his words as he constantly clears his throat. Pepper shivers as he speaks, her bright nails a shade of delicate grey and her hands seems so small, just like her own amongst the men. The black lacquer of the wood warms them all and as one, when Tony finishes do they remove their hands. The gravedigger leans on a gravestone just three graves away, the bubble he pops loud in their silence. She stares down at the casket, the lacquer gleaming proudly and the gnats have gathered in her lungs. She takes a deep breath in and out, in and out before it comes caught. Her breathe comes as a staccato, uneven and wracked. The next breathe comes from her opened lips, her tongue tasting the dryness of her mouth, the lipstick on her lips. She stares to the lacquer, the darkness swimming in her version and her hand tingles as the heat dissipates from it, the chill returns before a warm hand slips into her own.

The warmth surprises her and she blinks as the tears fall down as a pair down her cheeks and gather on her chin. Her back is taunt, her arm trembles as she blinks again and more tears gather and fall. She looks to the owner of the hand and Steve looks to her and with his free arm pulls her into his chest. This time when she breathes, she tastes the dryness of her tongue, her lipstick on her teeth, his cologne mixed the starch, the underline of musk that never leaves, the smell of the product in his hair, the smell of her perfume that was meant to recreate the roses that had gifted to her in Budapest after she had been acquired into throwing away her old life and running into the new, of the grass beneath their feet, of the smell of his own person cologne he had made to compliment her perfume and the dinners he would take her out to, small, quiet places where they could just be themselves and not Natalia and Clinton and not Agent Romanov and Agent Barton, not Hawkeye and Black Widow but Clint and Natasha and...and she couldn’t stop the tears now. The sob gripes her, like a corset drawn to tight, her skin too small as she bows her head. The gnats have gathered in her stomach and she feels a mass that has festered there deaden and become a heavy weight that attempts to drag her composure down with it. The hand that holds Steve’s is gripping him like a vice, she knows this, and she knows that no matter how softly she attempts to sob that he will hear it regardless.

She shivers, a whole body tremble as she pulls herself back together again, gathering the pieces as she rebuilds the portrait in her head of what she needs to be. Steve’s arm moves up and down her back as he has done earlier for her arm, and the as the buzzing dies down in her head, she realizes she has missed the fact that he has been speaking to her. They are meaningless words, sweet nothings that give her a soothing elixir to the buzzing that’s in between her ears. They leave the funeral together, hand in hand, her head held high though she knows the veil has pressed angry patterns about her face. The hat is skewed, her tears leaving trails easily enough for others to follow. They all leave together in the same car in which them came, and she sits between Rhodes and Steve. Pepper leans on Anthony’s shoulders, her eyes closed in peace, her lips pressed in tension. Her knees jostling against him every now and then and she misses the look he gives her when they are nearly home. As she looks on this silent exchange it that makes her nearly sick both with the want of receiving it and of the jealously of him being able to still give it.

She sits with her ankles crossed in the cab of the limousine, her back straight as if she knows that if she were to relax, it would mean the end of her facade. Her purse is in her lap and with every stop they make, her finger tighten into the fabric as if it were the safety bar of the roller coaster. She does not steady herself as the car makes smooth turns, she leans heavily against Rhodey to her left or Steve to her right and every time the smooth turn finishes she rights herself. JARVIS comes in through the speakers quietly offering refreshment and Bruce quietly picks up a tumbler mixed with grenadine and gin. He does not throw back, instead he drinks it slowly. Savoring the sweetness marred by the sharpness of the alcohol.

When they arrive at Stark Tower, there is no media to greet them, no well wishers, no congressmen promising to right the wrongs, to punish the villains. They slide effortlessly into the underground garage and smoothly park. Steve is out first his hand extended to her, then she, then Rhodey, then Pepper, then Tony and finally, Bruce. They stand together and look to each other, the artificial light illuminating them each. She moves first, away from this group, from the quiet camaraderie and the looks that tell her, _it’s okay, we’re here for you. Natasha, don’t leave us._ She pushes the hard plastic to call the elevator down and her finger refuses to leave. The skin of her finger becoming pink as she continues to add pressure, as she shivers under the lights and focuses on the plastic button with its illuminated background stares back at her.

She can hear the smart clap of heels approaching, too wide in stride, so it isn’t Pepper. From the shadow cast on the walls, she can tell by the hair: Bruce. He places his jacket on her shoulders though she shouldn’t need in Stark’s perfectly controlled environment and she doesn’t shrug it off. She continues to press down the call button and he gently removes her finger from it. With his own hand rubs her own and then holds her hand in both of his.

“It will be okay.”

The elevator door opens and she looks at him, can see the same pain, same knowledge in his eyes. She leads him into the doors and everyone follows, Rhodey talking lowly to Pepper as the CEO nods as she listens. Steve still looks to her, blue eyes looking to her own with too much knowledge. Too much understanding.

The ride is quiet and short, the elevator pulling them up through fifty floors as if they were rising only to five. They have all have drinks as they lounge around Stark Tower’s entertainment level, the same in which months prior Tony had been thrown during the Battle of New York. She sits on the coach, her heels neatly standing in front of the cushion she’s on, her legs curled up beneath her as she drinks the vodka in her hand. Her veil is gone, balanced delicately along with the hat on her shoes. Her sunglasses are still on, her shield. There’s a fire going in the fireplace and the heater is on and music is filtering through, yet she still feels chilled. She quietly slips from her revere on the couch and quietly opens the glass door leading to the balcony, the chill of the glass feeling warm and familial as she pushes her way through. New York glows in the night air, a wind musing her hair as office lights decorate the sky as new stars, the road below her feet looking to be made of veins of light in the shades of white and red. The glasses give it a tint of drab brown, of a taint, a film of dirt that no matter how hard the city tries to scrub itself clean that it will never fade. She takes a drink from her glass as the coldness crashes and wraps around her as the alcohol spears warmth through her system and into the heart of the weight in her stomach.

She’s taking steps to the platform that Tony uses to deconstruct his suit, and she knows that her exit is already caused a commotion and that this will cause a panic but it doesn’t matter. Her red hair dances in her eyes and with her hand she combs through it with her fingers to push it away. Her feet feel slippery through the nylons she’s wearing and she looks down to watch as she takes a step and the heat patch in the shape of her foot fades, brushed away as if it were sand and the wind the tide. When she looks up, she expects it to be Tony to pull her in, to tell her not to be stupid but its Rhodey. 

“You don’t have to do this.” He says with an arm extended. He looks to her as if she might run and jump and she takes another drink of the vodka and looks from him to the skyline before her. Office lights turn off as the shadows of their occupants leave to continue on with their lives. Below she knows there’s taxis honking, of people cursing their luck or running to catch a play. There’s people getting ready to go to bed, people planning their next big strike, people who are celebrating Clint’s death and her finger rubs against the warm metal of the ring he used to wear. She turns around and Steve has joined them out here in the cold and beyond them through the glass Pepper has the phone to her ear as Bruce looks out to her. Tony downs a tumbler next to Bruce, and he looks at her and motions. _Get back in here._

What if she didn’t want to _get back in there?_ The rebellion wells up and she wants to stomp her foot and throw the glass though she doesn’t. She wants to scream, to shout as the leaden ball that has made itself a home in her body begins to crumble and she takes her final drink as the liquid disappears between her lips. She cradles her stomach with her arm and props her elbow against her hand as she holds the glass with clammy fingers.

“Do you think I would I jump?” Her accent is thick and it sounds foreign to her own ears and she sounds a bit shocked at the accusation.

“It’s not safe up here,” He offers and takes a step forward. “Come back inside.”

“Please.” Steve adds to the end.

She looks to both of them and smiles and she too, extends her hand out and places it in James’ hand who smiles and pulls her in close. They walk in together, her hand enveloped by his and for the rest of the night she stays with them. There are no calls for deployment, no calls that demand answers on projects, no calls to disturb them. They spend the night listening to music, eating light food and drinking. They talk of times before, of impossible situations and impossible people. As the time winds down to midnight, the glasses on the bridge of her nose slip and she removes them, folds them and place them on the table. She sits on the floor, her legs tucked in close as she listens to a story Steve tells. Her arm is her pillow that rests on his knees and his warm fingers gently tap on her skin. She doesn’t look up to him as he speaks, simply listens as he navigates the memories he has of a world, an America that is lost to the ages.

James and Bruce lean against one another on the couch, glasses between them, ties undone. James is caught in the tale as Bruce looks to be focused on trying to stay awake. Pepper sits beside them and Tony sits at the end, tie and suit jacket gone, his hair mused. There’s a darkness to his eyes that now, as she fully looks to him that is stark and open. _It’s not your fault._ Is what she wants to say but a part of her wants to blame him, blame Bruce, blame Steve, blame James or even blame Thor for not being there. For not being where he was, hundreds of miles and a sea away but she can’t. It’s not fair. When midnight is about to toll, they all stand. James shaking on Bruce’s shoulder to wake him from his doze and they quickly refill their glasses. JARVIS automates a countdown and when midnight hits, music filters loud and fast and they all drink as one. Bruce is the one to break the silence first, he smiles wide and bright and begins to laugh. Steve is next then James, then Tony who tosses his glass somewhere and it makes a loud crash and Pepper who looks ready to scold but it melts away to her own laugh and then finally, she joins in. They laugh and as the music plays Steve grabs her hands, pulls her aside and into a dance. 

She gasps as the alcohol swim in her veins and quickly courses through her. The room spins as they dance and others follow suit. She can spy both James and Tony doing something crazy together, as Pepper howls with laughter as Bruce dances with himself before being pulled in by Tony. As she spins she looks up to Steve, looks to him as the colors of the room liquefy and gather at the corners of eyes and then like a film covers them. The world a palette of running colors, of perfume, cologne and musk and when she closes them, she can feel the tears fall and then fly, and she laughs, loud and bright as she picks up the pace and they go from a waltz, to a jig and Steve is caught off guard but learns the movement quickly. He joins in her laughter and together, they go about the room.

They celebrate as they try to forget how they mourned their fallen friend. He had forced them all to promise him, back during the halcyon days when the topic of dying on the field had been an impossibility, that heroes can never truly fall. They could only mourn him for a day and celebrate the rest, so as they dance as the leaden ball within her finally cracks, splinters and as the tears come they are mixed with both pain and laughter, life and strife as she is passed from one avenger to the next. They dance, they party, they celebrate until the sun comes up and when it does, they watch it together. The great ball of light rising through the tall buildings, replacing the artificial stars of the offices with beams of light, removes the veins of the city with cabs and cars. Noise wells up from the earth below and bellows to signal the new day and with eyes red from crying, with limbs exhausted from dancing, they greet the day with laughter, with smiles. They greet the day with the will to move onward, to move forward and promise together, as one, not to fall into the darkness, that though they may have lost one, that they will avenged them and continue on.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Utada Hikaru's Sakura Nagashi.
> 
> Written to take a break from my nanowrimo ([?](http://nanowrimo.org/en/participants/folkloric/novels/latibule-226295)) and to essentially stretch my legs a bit.


End file.
